


The Soulmate Test

by ThebeMoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Knockturn Alley, Malfoy Manor, Poorly Executed Seduction Techniques, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebeMoon/pseuds/ThebeMoon
Summary: Draco Malfoy’s life after the War has lapsed into a steamy round of indulgence between the Manor and Knockturn Alley. A highly eligible bachelor despite his dark past, Draco is used to scheming witches glamouring “DLM” on their arms and claiming to be his soulmate in accordance with ancient magic. But he never expected Hermione Granger to be one of them.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 100
Kudos: 913
Collections: DFW Tropes Fest: Double Trouble





	The Soulmate Test

It was a rare clear night in London, with a full moon so large that one could read a drink menu by its light. The top deck of the Horhex nightclub had no walls, only invisible wards against the elements to offer breathtaking views. Patrons entered via an invisible bridge from an apparition point to avoid the rest of Knockturn Alley.

The Horhex, of course, was a play on horcrux, with a salacious emphasis on the first syllable. Draco Malfoy liked to smile wickedly whenever he said the name. A long, lean figure in black silk and cashmere, he lounged on a velvet sofa, hair shining in the moonlight. To the scantily clad witch at his feet, he outshone any heavenly body tonight.

“Draco,” she purred, stroking his knee.

The wizard turned his lips from the cheek of the witch beside him, a faint sneer on his sharp features. It was a cheeky move, Violet knew, calling him Draco. She had only just met him, after all. 

“Do you know what day it is?” she breathed, trailing her hand upward.

Malfoy’s leg stiffened under her touch. “I’m surprised you do” was all he said.

The other witch shook her blonde head in warning. Violet ignored it. Jealousy was _not_ attractive.

“Silly.” Violet slapped Malfoy’s thigh. “How could I forget my own birthday?”

“May second is your birthday?” His voice was a soft hiss. “Extraordinary.”

Violet pressed on. “I was hoping we could be alone,” she said. “I have something to show you.”

“A present?” He sounded darkly amused now. “For me? On today of all days?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, a present for both of us. When you see this, you will understand … my feelings.”

“You hear that, love?” Malfoy addressed the other witch. “Vera here has _feelings_.”

 _“Violet,”_ Violet said.

“She’s drunk,” the blonde said icily.

“I like them that way,” Malfoy said.

The blonde pursed her lips, then rose and stalked off. Malfoy watched her cross the invisible bridge, then turned back to Violet.

“So,” he asked coldly, “what will you give me on the wizarding world’s holiest of days? What do I deserve?”

The way Malfoy said “holiest” sent a shiver up Violet’s spine, but she ignored it. 

“I give you _me_ , Draco.” She shifted between his legs. “Me for you, and you for me, and you will understand.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, opening his knees slightly. “Should I cast a Notice-Me-Not? I do have some propriety.”

Violet flushed as she realized her position, kneeling before him. His hand was heavy on her shoulder now, holding her in place, and she didn’t dare object. _Do it_ , she heard her father’s voice echo. The large signet on Malfoy’s finger, its silvery crest shimmering in the moonlight, gave her strength. Titles. Riches. Power. _Show him._

“My feelings for you are more than passion,” she said, her mouth dry. “It is fated.” Violet raised her right hand and turned it palm up.

Malfoy’s grey eyes flickered to her forearm and again his body tensed. Embedded in her skin, shining gold in the moonlight, were three clear letters: "DLM."

“I woke with it this morning,” Violet breathed. “It’s you, Draco, I’m sure of it.” She leaned closer. “I’m your soulmate.”

Malfoy sneered. “You might want to check with Dugald Mimsy first. Or Derek McLaggen.”

“What, a bus driver? A Gryffindor?” Violet tried to smile. “I think not. It’s you. Kiss me, you’ll see.”

The wizard grasped her arm, his fingers surprisingly warm, his thumb running over the letters. He was leaning forward now and his white-blond fringe veiled his eyes. Violet felt a frisson of fear despite the gentle touch.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Malfoy’s grip tightened suddenly. “You want to be my soulmate? Do you have any idea what I’ve done?” 

“D-Draco, I don’t under-understand—”

“You don’t?” Malfoy’s voice was hissing again and his grip didn’t loosen an inch. “You come here, on this day of all days, claiming to be the other half of my nonexistent heart.” His breath, heavy with sirenscotch, fanned Violet’s face.

Violet was baffled. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Father had said he’d be happy. Soulmates were incredibly rare. Malfoy would lavish her with jewels and estates. She would be one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Malfoy sighed. “You don’t know.” His voice sounded heavy and sad. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

He threw her hand away and drew his wand, and Violet cringed, certain he would hex her. She braced for a _Crucio_ , or perhaps a slicing spell across the arm, obliterating the letters in blood.

Instead she felt a cool tingle on her skin, and looked down to see the letters disintegrate before her eyes. Malfoy blew on her arm and the gold particles scattered and vanished.

“What-what happened?” she gasped.

“Get up,” Malfoy ordered, and Violet shakily found her feet. “Fortunately for you, Vivian …”

“Violet,” she said.

He rolled his eyes, and for an instant he looked like an ordinary young wizard sitting on a sofa.

Then he glared. “ _Violet._ As I said, fortunately for you, those letters mean nothing. You are not my soulmate, or Mclaggen’s or anybody’s.” Malfoy sighed. “Take your little tricks and go.”

“But I don’t—”

“Go,” he hissed, raising his wand. “Go home and thank your stars you failed.”

 _Failed._ Violet turned and felt her way to the exit, stumbling blindly along the invisible bridge through her tears. She’d failed. Father had been very clear: show Draco Malfoy the letters, seduce him, and cast her own initials on his arm while he slept. Everybody knew that soulmate signs only appeared on witches, never wizards, until after their first kiss. It had taken Father weeks of painful experimentation to imprint those golden letters on her arm, and Malfoy had brushed them away in seconds. The letters were gone, and Violet’s chances of escape had scattered with them.

***

  
  


Draco watched Violet walk away, her shoulders slumped. They were showing up more frequently now, these witches sporting golden letters, ever since that _Witch Weekly_ issue on soulmates.

The six-page spread had been riddled with falsehoods and half-truths, but it had gotten the basics right: In rare instances, sometimes only once in a generation, a pair of magical soulmates was born, manifesting as golden initials on the witch’s arm on her twentieth birthday. The rest of the article was nonsense about two hearts beating as one and a list of “Famous Soulmates Through History” that bordered on the fantastical. Merlin and Nimue? Dumbledore and Grindelwad? Harry Potter’s _parents_?

Most dangerous of all, the article had included a picture of a purported soulmate mark, and now witches across Britain were glamouring or tattooing or painting their crushes’ initials on their arms. This was nothing new, of course, such tricks had been played in pureblood circles for centuries, but it was never spoken of, let alone published in the popular press. Draco’s friend Blaise Zabini had laughed at the blond wizard’s outrage, saying if this was the game these days, he was happy to play along, but then Blaise never took anything seriously.

Draco loosened his tie and stretched his legs, relishing a rare moment of solitude. The encounter with his bogus soulmate had very nearly sobered him. He found himself noticing small details: the suspicious stains on the green sofa, the tired lines on witches’ faces, the uneven boards of the deck’s polished wood floor. The moon slipped behind swiftly gathering clouds and the club’s floating candles flared to life, reminding Draco of the Great Hall … no, he wouldn’t think of the Battle, two years ago on this day. 

Instead, he left the sofa and began circling the room. There were more interesting things to think about. It was nearly time to leave and he only needed a suitable companion. Someone new.

But there was nobody new, every woman he met was drunk, grabby, eager to please. In Draco’s unusually sober state, he now noticed men stealthily tipping vials into women’s drinks, women casting covert hexes on rivals, both sexes dipping fingers into others’ pockets and withdrawing closed hands. Half the patrons were under Notice-Me-Not charms, doing Merlin knew what. Despite its glitter, the Horhex was as dark and dangerous as the rest of Knockturn Alley.

Draco was leaning against the wall, interviewing a candidate, when a better prospect walked past. She was small and slender, dressed in black lace, and strode to the bar with a speed and purpose entirely foreign to these surroundings. Draco extricated his arm from the giggling redhead and followed.

The witch turned her head slightly, and Draco caught a glimpse of thick eyelashes, a rounded cheek, red lips. Now he was just behind her and his eyes traced the delicate curve of her spine from the ridiculously large bun on the top of her head to the edge of her low-backed dress. He extended his hand, but she was moving too quickly, too decisively, and she had reached the bar before he could do more than brush her elbow.

Annoyed, Draco glared away a drunken wizard and took his seat beside her. He would buy the witch a drink. She was already ordering, however, speaking too quickly and too low for him to catch her words. Then finally she turned his way, and Draco’s practiced smile froze. What in Merlin was _she_ doing here?

Certainly the witch looked comically startled to see him as well. Her jaw dropped and her brown eyes opened wide. Was this a raid? Draco had read she was working at the Ministry, wasting the Wizengamot’s time on some bill or another. He glanced around the deck—no Aurors in sight.

“Hermione Granger,” Draco said with a wicked leer, although he felt anything but aroused.

Granger’s response was disappointing; she merely blinked and spun away again, leaving Draco staring once more at that smooth, graceful back. The bartender placed a glass of sirenscotch at his elbow, and Draco took a sip and turned to face the dance floor. He had no desire to speak to the Golden Girl, although she had testified for him at his trial. He had owled her a letter of thanks with an apology, received a civil reply, and considered the entire matter closed. 

He would have left right then, but the redhead from the wall slipped into the space between his legs, blocking his escape. The witch’s face was flushed, her hair falling out of its elaborate style. She gripped Draco’s shoulders, and her breath was hot with firewhiskey.

“Dance with me, Dray-Dray,” she breathed.

“No.” He tried to pull away, but she had him caged, his back to the bar.

“Don’t be that way. I know what you like.”

Merlin, she probably did. Draco pushed against her, not exactly a shove, but putting his slow weight behind it so his long arms stretched between them. “Not now, sweetheart.”

“But I want to see your _Maaaaanor_ . You _proooomised_.” The witch’s high-pitched whine cut through the throbbing music, and Draco couldn’t help glancing at Granger. She had turned back to watch, clearly undecided whether to be horrified or amused.

The drunken witch was pushing against his hands now, panting, surprisingly strong. Suddenly she shuddered and backed off, her eyes unfocused. Draco lowered his arms, surprised, but then he saw a wand in Granger’s hand.

Draco wanted to snarl at her—he didn’t need anybody’s help—but thought of another way to wipe that smug look off her face. He picked up his drink and leaned into her.

“Confounding the competition, Granger?” he asked. “Hmmm ... aggressive. I like it.” He patted his lap. “Come on then, give it a go.”

Draco expected a gasp, at least a blush, but Granger just rolled her eyes. She twisted on her stool to face him, her back straight, legs crossed.

“Perhaps another time,” she said evenly. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Are you now,” he said suggestively, a reflexive response. Her stockings, he now noticed, were fish-netted, a subtle pattern but enough to heat the blood ever so slightly. Perhaps he shouldn’t drink after all.

“I’m looking for Dugald Mimsy.”

Draco choked on his drink. _“Why?”_ Mimsy was a Knight Bus driver, a fat sot with an eye patch who always came in after his night shift.

“I have my reasons.”

“Why are you really here, Granger?” She should be off with The Chosen Git, celebrating their victory. 

But he had lost Granger’s attention; she was holding up her wine, frowning. “This glass is dirty.”

Draco didn’t answer, he was too busy staring at her outstretched arm. At first he thought he was looking at her MUDBLOOD scars, which was bad enough. But no, Granger held the glass in her right hand and the letters embedded in her skin were gold, not red. They glittered in the candlelight, spelling out “DLM.”

For the first time in his life, Draco blessed his Death Eater training, for nothing less than hours of rigid control at Voldemort’s dinner table could have allowed him to view his own initials on Hermione Granger’s arm with anything approaching aplomb. War hero, Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of Her Age … why would she play such a trick? Was this a revenge plot cooked up with Potter and Weasel? Was she trying to seduce him for information? Gather evidence to send him to Azkaban?

Draco took a shaky drink from his glass, trying to imagine Granger seducing anyone, let alone her childhood bully. She was attractive enough, he supposed, especially with that awful hair off her face. But Granger dancing and flirting and leaning close to whisper in a wizard’s ear, allowing her lips to _just_ brush his skin? He couldn’t imagine it. Alright, maybe he could imagine it, especially with those stockinged legs just inches away, but it wasn’t possible. This was some sort of scheme, and Draco was determined to get to the bottom of it.

She certainly couldn’t be more obvious about her plan, holding up the wine glass like that. The letters were practically under Draco’s nose and they shone crisp and unmistakable. Granger had done a good job with the letters, he had to give her that. The markings were even better than those in the _Witch Weekly_ spread. Granger’s had none of the rippling or shimmering of a glamour spell, or the faintly puckered edges of a magical tattoo. Draco clenched his fist against the sudden need to brush the glittering skin with his fingers.

Granger raised the glass higher, frowning. “I’m demanding another one.” She looked over at Draco. “I advise you to do the same, Merlin only knows where it’s been … what are you staring at? What—" 

She followed his gaze, spotting the letters on her own arm, and now she gasped and dropped the glass, which shattered, splattering wine on the floor. She slapped her other hand over her arm with a furious blush.

“Care to explain yourself, Granger?” Draco asked. He raised his own glass, but didn’t drink. The glass did look a little crusty.

“It’s nothing, just a joke—hahahaha!” She had her wand out now and was jabbing at the letters, muttering a glamour spell. She was going to blow her arm off if she wasn’t careful.

“What the fuck are my initials doing on your arm?” Draco hissed.

“They’re not _your_ initials,” she snapped back. The letters vanished and she cleared her throat, visibly calming herself.

“Nine wizards in wizarding Britain have those initials, according to Ministry records, once you allow for age and marital status.” Granger’s voice was entirely academic. “Clearly it can’t be you, so that leaves eight.”

“Then why … wait … you’re here for _Dugald Mimsy_?”

“Dugald Leonard Mimsy.” Granger produced a small scroll and snapped it open. “No. 8. If he doesn’t check out, then I suppose I’m headed to Canada. Good prospect. Hogwarts class of ’87.”

“Let me get this straight,” Draco growled. “You’ll consider Dugald Mimsy, but not me?”

“Of course,” she said. “Although, I admit, it’s not very likely. I rode the Knight Bus last week to look him over, and he nearly killed us all. I like a little more responsibility in a man.”

Draco’s Death Eater training was failing him, he knew it, and hated it, but could do absolutely nothing about his lower jaw, which was now on his chest.

“I’d hoped to find Mimsy here tonight.” Granger craned her neck to look over the crowd. “It won’t take long to test him.”

 _Test._ Draco remembered that excruciating talk before Fourth Year, when his father warned him of the traps witches set. _Be wary of soulmate signs,_ Lucius had said, _for they are almost certainly fake. They will show you the letters, then kiss you, then covertly cast their initials on your arm. Do not be fooled._ It had been, Draco realized, one of the few useful discussions he’d ever had with his father. Of course, their conversation had quickly devolved into a diatribe on the horrors of muggles and Draco’s many inadequacies, as usual, but Draco had been grateful.

Draco clenched his hands on his knees, resisting the urge to draw his wand. “Well, enjoy yourself, then. Just stay away from me. Nothing but an old enemy here.”

Granger sniffed. “Some enemy _you_ were.” She raised her hand again in imitation of a flapping, jabbering mouth: “Mudblood! Mudblood! My father will hear about this!”

Draco scowled. He’d done more than that and they both knew it. “You’re aware, of course, how to test for a soulmate bond.”

“Certainly,” she said without a trace of shame. “It took most of the spring, but I’ve tracked down and tested seven wizards.”

“You’ve kissed seven strange wizards?” Really, she must think he was stupid to buy this.

Granger nodded. “What’s the alternative? Wait around for the fateful encounter? I have things to do, plans to make. I hate loose ends.” She gave her now innocent-looking arm an unfriendly look. “Truly, this has bolloxed up my life.”

“Let’s be clear. You came here to trade a meaningless kiss with a wizard?” he asked.

She swept a glance over the smoking, pounding, writhing scene before them. “Well, this does seem the place for it.”

Draco shook his head. What a mad story. Fortunately, he only believed one word in ten. “I hate to disappoint you, Granger, but Mimsy isn’t here.”

Granger sighed. “Just my luck. I’ll just have to catch him at the bus garage. Thank you, Malfoy.” She hopped off her stool and placed a few knuts on the table. “You should hire a dishwasher,” she told the bartender.

 _She’s leaving._ Draco’s heart gave an odd lurch in his chest, and before he could stop himself, he stood and his hand brushed her bare back. “Granger, I thought you—”

“Not again!” she cried. Draco withdrew his hand quickly. She held up her arm, revealing the letters glittering on her skin once more. “I don’t understand, my glamours never fail!”

“Never mind that,” Draco said irritably. “I thought you didn’t like loose ends.”

“I _hate_ loose ends,” Granger said. “Why do you think I’m running all over London after a bus driver?”

“Well, it seems to me,” Draco couldn’t believe he was saying this, “that a pretty big loose end is standing right in front of you.”

“YOU?”

“No, the bartender. Yes, me.” _What are you doing?_ his mind gibbered.

Granger looked ready to have a stroke at the very idea. Draco smirked; he didn’t believe for a second she would do it, any more than he believed in those letters on her arm. He was calling her bluff, that was all.

Her eyes narrowed. “I would rather kiss Mimsy ten times than kiss you _once_ . I would rather _sleep with_ every wizard on this list than touch you in any way. At least Dugald Mimsy never called me Mudblood.”

“I don’t use that word anymore,” he heard himself say.

“Well, I’ll send you a medal,” she snapped. “I’m still not kissing you.”

“Then you’ll always wonder,” Draco said, rather enjoying himself now. 

“I’ll live.”

“Always wonder,” he repeated. “Every list you draw up will have a missing name. No one else will know, but you will know and I will know that the list is incomplete, lacking, merely … _Acceptable_.”

Granger stared at him, eyes wild, and Draco had only an instant to realize that he had pushed too far before she pulled his head down and kissed him.

Her lips were soft and sweet, everything Granger wasn’t, and the dissonance between the two sparked a sudden, excited fascination in Draco. How could this witch, who once broke his nose, faced Bellatrix and helped bring down Voldemort, feel so warm, so supple, so _yielding_ in his arms? Draco buried one hand in her hair, tugging at the large, puffy bun to release the curls he knew strained to escape, while his other hand splayed against her bare back, holding her against him. His tongue brushed her lower lip, demanding entrance, and she complied, _she let him in_. He deepened the kiss, and felt rather than heard a moan in her throat. Draco tore his lips away to press them against that throat, wanting to hear all the moans …

Granger’s voice rang out: “Malfoy!"

He raised his head and looked down at her, bewildered. Curls formed a wild halo around her face, her face flushed, lips swollen. He would take her to … no, not the Manor … where, then? Perhaps …

“Malfoy!” Her voice was shaky, but retained enough of that Granger incisiveness to cut through his lust-fogged mind.

“Do you have …” he began. Surely the Golden Girl made enough to rate her own place.

Granger slipped out of his hands, looking nervously around, but of course no one was watching—what they’d been doing was quite tame for the Horhex. A few couples on the dance floor were practically shagging and one witch was …

“That should be sufficient,” Granger said, her voice steadier now. She straightened her dress and pushed curls out of her face—a pointless exercise, as they bounced right back.

“Sufficient,” Draco repeated.

“Yes.” She tucked away her now-crumpled scroll. “I’ll expect your owl.”

“Owl.”

“Yes.” Granger sounded impatient. “You do know what to look for, right?”

Her know-it-all tone cleared Draco’s mind completely. “Yes, I know,” he snapped.

She nodded, satisfied. “Send me a post either way tomorrow. I’m trying to arrange a portkey to Winnipeg.”

Draco scowled. “Fine.”

“Good—goodnight, then.” Granger looked up at him, her eyes huge and shining with an emotion he couldn’t interpret. Without thinking, Draco stepped closer again.

“GOODNIGHT!” she repeated loudly, practically leaping away from him. And Draco just stood there, feeling an utter fool, as Hermione Granger walked briskly away, dodging drunken wizards and stepping over prone bodies. But Draco didn’t move, just watched the determined little figure march across the invisible bridge and disappear into the night.

  
  


***

  
  


“Tell me.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“Tell me again.”

“Only if you do something useful rather than sit on my sofa and swill my liquor.” Draco dropped another pile of scrolls on the Malfoy library’s large table. “Help me sort through these.”

“Me, useful?” Blaise laughed. “I’m ornamental.”

“It’s here somewhere, I know it. My father showed it to me once … no, no, no …” Draco shoved the rejected scrolls aside, sending them tumbling to the floor.

“Tell me again,” his friend repeated, pouring another drink.

“Merlin, Blaise, it’s not even ten in the morning.”

“Hair of the dog. Tell me.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, a habit he’d picked up again now that he rarely saw his mother. (“Malfoys don’t fidget, dear.”) “It’s very simple. I woke up this morning and there they were.”

Blaise snickered. “No, further back. Last night. Tell me again how you asked Hermione Granger for a lap dance. Or how she said she’d prefer a grimy bus driver to you. Or … I know! The snogging. Tell me how—”

“It seems you remember well enough,” Draco said. “Go find a pensieve if you want to relive it. _I_ would rather not.”

Draco had been sour all morning. He’d begun drinking at the Horhex immediately after Granger left him, until he was almost too drunk to use his portkey to the Manor. Certainly too drunk to notice a witch grabbing onto his arm. And too drunk to do anything of consequence _to_ the witch on his arm, a fact she was quick to point out the next morning in his bed. Draco couldn’t throw her out fast enough.

“Granger did this to me,” Draco hissed, scrabbling through the scrolls. “It’s a trick, a curse, some sort of sick revenge and I won’t let … ah!” He waved a long parchment triumphantly.

Blaise finally left the sofa and drew closer, interested, as Draco laid out the scroll.

There were three sheets of parchment, all old and clearly magical, the looping medieval script glowing softly. Draco pushed the first two sheets aside and pounced on the third, which was covered with large illuminated letters. Gold letters spelled out AGM, while the silver letters read JBA. Actaeus Guillaume Malfoy and Justine Beatrice Abbott. The last soulmates in the Malfoy family, married in 1423. 

With trembling fingers, Draco pulled up the right sleeve of his dressing gown to reveal his own silver letters: HJG. A perfect match. 

“I need to know how she did this,” Draco said. “I need to know what she’s scheming.”

Blaise was shaking his head over the first parchment. “Who would have thought—Draco Malfoy and the Golden Swot. Twin souls. Two halves of a beating heart. A harmonious union of bliss …”

“Blaise!”

“… Separately you’re both bad enough. Your children will be _unbearable_ …”

“Damn it, Blaise! You need to take this seriously!”

His friend raised an elegant eyebrow. “From what I can see, _you’re_ the one not taking it seriously.” He pointed to Draco’s arm. “That is no cheap imitation. You, my friend, are Marked once again.”

“I almost prefer the first one,” Draco muttered.

“Now, now, be nice. Send her a rose by owl. A red rose, or perhaps a rosebud, denoting a young and innocent love …”

Draco rolled up the parchment. “I’m not sending any bloody owl.”

“But she told you to contact her!” Blaise was shocked.

“I don’t care.”

Blaise shrugged. “Your funeral.”

Draco floated all the scrolls back into their cabinet. “Well, I’ve found what I needed, no thanks to you, so you can fuck off now.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Blaise said, returning to the sofa. He crossed his legs at the ankles and extended an arm across the sofa back. A perfect smile gleamed against his dark skin. “I’m sticking with you. I want to be there when Granger hunts you down.”

True to his word, Blaise followed Draco around all day, and while he didn’t bring up the letters again, the amusement dancing in his eyes remained. Draco spent the day doing the dullest things he could think of—buying parchment, getting robes fitted, reading through business correspondence—but Blaise rarely strayed more than a few feet away. They had dinner at the Manor, and afterward Blaise wheedled him into returning to the Horhex.

“That is the last place I’m going tonight,” Draco snapped.

“Coward.”

“Yes, and proud of it. We can get drunk on decent scotch for once.”

“Just bring the bottle,” Blaise advised. “She’ll hunt you down wherever you are, including here. You really want to see Hermione Granger at the gates of the Manor? We might as well have some fun before the show begins." 

“You’re wrong,” Draco said. “Even if this isn’t a scheme, she’s probably halfway to Canada by now.”

In the end, they went, because Blaise was a genius at getting Draco to do things he didn’t want to do. Draco sat at the bar, brooding into his scotch and snapping at everyone. Blaise dallied with witch after witch, but frequently checked back for random swotty Gryffindors. 

Draco’s mood darkened further as the night wore on, until it was nearly midnight. Once again time had slipped away and someone had stolen his twenty-year-old bottle of sirenscotch, so that when he did hear that familiar huffy tone, he was once again tragically sober.

A light, flowery cologne floated around him and a small hand tapped impatiently on the polished bar. “Well?” Granger asked.

Draco didn’t look at her. “Well, what?”

“You were supposed to owl me,” she said.

“I was busy.”

Another huff. “Merlin, Malfoy, just say it. Say you didn’t see the letters.” He heard the rustle of parchment. “Then I can cross out your name and move on. I’ve missed this week’s portkey to North America, but I’ve got another DLM prospect at St. Mungo’s. Poor bloke was cursed two years ago—thinks he’s a lamppost.”

Draco looked at her then. “You’re going to kiss a mental case?”

“Why not? I did last night.”

A snicker behind Draco almost made him groan, although he didn’t turn around. _Blaise_.

“Just say it, Malfoy. Say you don’t bear the letters.”

Draco stood and looked down at her, at those wide brown eyes he wanted to see half-lidded again, at that mouth he wanted to kiss again, at the thin straps of her blue dress that he wanted to push off her shoulders …

Granger’s breath came quickly and she looked suddenly doubtful. What could Draco say? If the letters were fake, admitting he bore them would only advance whatever scheme she was hatching. If the letters were real … Draco’s pulse leaped. If they were real, well, the magic had clearly gone astray. Perhaps once it could have been possible, if it hadn’t been for his father, the Dark Lord, the war, if Potter had shaken his hand when he …

Enough. It never could have been possible. Draco believed in magic, but he also believed in free will, and he’d been thinking on this topic all day. For his entire life he’d had little choice in anything, and now, two years after the war, he could set his own path. It might not be a particularly admirable or meaningful path, but it was _his_. Now these letters on his arm wanted to take his choice away from him again.

And from Granger as well, he’d realized. He was her absolute last choice. She’d rather be with a human lamppost or fat bus driver. And either man would be better for her than Draco Malfoy. At age twenty she was already presenting bills to the Wizengamot and one day she’d likely be Minister of Magic. But not if she was linked to a Death Eater.

“Malfoy?” she asked. He’d been staring at her for too long, and she sounded worried. She’d fuss and fret over him, Draco knew it, and hide his liquor and make him pay his taxes and boss the hell out of him, but in bed she’d instantly submit and he could do whatever …

“Malfoy?” Granger repeated. “Draco?”

“There are no letters,” he said harshly, tearing his eyes from hers. “Nothing.”

“Oh.” Her voice sounded tremulous and trembly. “Alright, then.”

He turned away on his stool, eyes fixed on the empty glass between his hands. “Go kiss your lamppost, Granger.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Have a good night, Malfoy.”

Draco counted to one hundred before raising his head, not wanting to watch her walk away. When he looked to his left, there was Blaise, grinning widely.

“What?” Draco snapped.

“You are _such_ a fucking idiot.”

“Shut it.”

Blaise laughed. “It’s so cute, you thinking you’re in control of this. Haven’t you wondered why the letters appear on the witch’s arm first?”

“No.” Draco took a hearty gulp of his drink.

“It’s the magic’s way of protecting them—I read it on your scroll. Witches are the ones in control, they instigate the first encounter, the first kiss, the test.” Blaise snickered. “Apparently, men can’t be trusted.”

“Yes, because women are so innocent,” Draco grumbled.

“She’ll be back, don’t you worry,” Blaise said. He slung an arm over Draco’s shoulder and pointed with the hand holding his drink. “Meanwhile, which do you like better over there, the blonde or the brunette?”

“The blonde,” Draco said, forcing a leer.

“Not for you, _you’re_ taken. For me,” Blaise knocked back the rest of his bourbon. “Hmmm … I can’t decide. Maybe they’d be willing to audition. Ladies!”

And Blaise was off with a jaunty wave. Draco glared after him, then spun around on his stool and ordered another drink. A witch across the bar smiled at him, and he nodded back. He’d show Blaise. And Granger. This was his path. _His_ choice. 

The rest of the evening went just about as well as the previous one: Draco drank himself blind, portkeyed back to the Manor with a willing woman, utterly failed to satisfy either party involved and woke up the next morning to a raging headache and an equally raging witch.

After that he avoided the Horhex all week, but then Blaise asked to meet him there Friday night. Draco was bored enough to agree; Granger would have no reason to be there, and he could have a quick drink and maybe stay sober enough to get laid properly. He showed up an hour later than they’d arranged, but Blaise still wasn’t there. Or maybe Blaise had arrived and then wandered off with some woman. 

So Draco withdrew to his usual sofa, chatting up a few birds while taking careful sips of scotch. Without any dark anniversaries or daft muggleborns or annoying friends, he could actually relax, shedding his suitcoat, although he kept his shirt sleeves firmly buttoned to the wrists. How lovely it was to have _two_ marks to hide these days. Both brands seemed to burn Draco’s skin, distracting him, and he found himself gulping scotch again. The room began to spin gently, and he felt like he’d finally floated free of his sins of past and present.

“Draco,” the witch beside him whispered. “Draco, I have something to show you.”

“Really,” he murmured back. He’d already seen quite a bit of her, since she’d allowed him to run his hand under her halter top and push it aside to cup her flesh. Her hair was blonde and curly and her heavy fringe nearly covered her eyes. Her leg was slung over him and her hand on his thigh.

“Don’t you feel it, Draco?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said into those blond curls, eyes closed.

“I’ve been needing to see you, to touch you,” she said. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Me too,” Draco mumbled. “Why don’t we …”

“Look, darling.”

Draco looked down, expecting to see her neckline tugged down or her skirt hiked up. Instead he saw her outstretched forearm and three golden letters reading “DLM.”

“Are you fucking _joking_?” Draco’s howl broke through the music and laughter. Other revelers looked over curiously, but he didn’t care. He disentangled himself from her and leaped to his feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he snarled. “What is _wrong_ with you witches?” He grabbed her arm—this one was a sloppy job, the gold letters dull and smeared.

“This is not anything to play with, stupid bint!” Draco raved on. “You’re fooling with people’s lives!”

“But it’s true, darling,” she insisted. “You’re my destiny.”

“You’re a scheming sneak!” he shouted, and she cringed. “How dare you?”

“Mate, mate.” Blaise was behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Draco threw it off.

“What’s your name?” Draco asked the blonde in a low dangerous voice that could nonetheless be heard through the suddenly silent room. Even the music had stopped.

“Draco,” Blaise said.

“Marietta … Marietta Louise Edgecombe.” She was also standing now, holding out her arm pleadingly. “Look.”

“And you’re my soulmate, are you, Marietta?” Draco asked, still in that same voice. “My other half? The one who will fulfill all my needs and desires?”

“Yes, Draco …”

Draco glared down at her, his fury mounting. Distantly he heard Blaise’s voice, “Draco, for Merlin’s sake, calm _down_ —”

“Really?” he hissed at the witch. He curled his fingers around his right cuff and yanked until the silk ripped and a cufflink clattered on the floor. He pulled up the black sleeve.

“Then why do I have someone else’s initials on my bloody arm?” Draco practically shouted.

The entire room gasped, and he heard Blaise groan, “Oh almighty _fuck_.”

Certainly the blonde witch looked shocked; she goggled at the letters. “You have a soulmate!” she cried.

Draco drew his wand and she flinched, but he only passed it over her arm, then blew the golden dust away. “Yes, I do,” he snapped. “And it certainly isn’t _you.”_

The witch slumped, humiliated, and Blaise, ever the gentleman, caught her as she fainted.

“I’m leaving,” Draco announced to the room as he pulled a silver napkin holder from his pocket. “And I am _never_ drinking here again!”

  
  


***

Draco woke the next morning with a groan, blinking in the obscenely bright sunshine pouring through his bedroom windows.

Hands over his eyes, he peeked through his fingers to assess his situation. The good news was that there was no witch in his bed. The bad news was that he felt like death and he was out of hangover potion.

He staggered to the bathroom and combined a Draught of Peace with a Pepper-Up Potion, heating it with his wand. The ad-hoc mixture allowed him to get ready for the day, although his Saturday plans were few: argue with some family portraits, hex Blaise if he was stupid enough to show his face, brood in the library over life’s many injustices.

The May sun was too warm for black, so Draco donned grey trousers and a blue shirt, fastening the shirt cuffs securely at the wrists, then headed to the terrace for breakfast.

By the time he finished eating, the clocks were tolling noon, and Blaise still hadn’t arrived. Odd. Blaise’s life was nearly as purposeless as Draco’s. Surely his friend was eager to hash out the horrors of the night before. Had Draco really screamed at that poor girl? And flashed those silver initials and shouted he had a soulmate? He really needed to quit drinking.

He was still on the terrace, sipping tea and considering something stronger (Draco’s resolutions never lasted long) when Poppy the elf appeared with a crack.

“Aaah! What?” Draco snapped, dabbing at his shirt with a napkin.

“Master has a visitor,” Poppy wheezed. He was a very old elf, his spindly form wrapped in a tea towel. Mother had managed to hide him away during the war, telling everyone Draco had killed him for burning the toast.

“Blaise?” Draco asked. _Finally._ “Bring him in.”

“It’s a Miss, Master,” the elf said, ears drooping. “Poppy is sorry, but Miss will not enter the house.”

Draco, who had just lifted a teacup to his lips again, dropped it a second time. Once again hot liquid spattered on his shirt, but he didn’t care.

“Where?” he croaked.

“I opened the rose bower for her, Master.”

“Thank you, Poppy,” Draco said absently. He’d made more of an effort over the last year to thank his elves, but the habit didn’t really take until he made them all wear signs reading “THANK ME, DAMN IT.”

Draco chose not to Apparate; instead he walked the long graveled path leading from the Manor’s front door to the gate. The entrance to the bower was an arch of climbing white roses, enchanted to bloom year-round. The bower’s roses were arranged, he’d been told, to denote the path to love, beginning with purity, the arch spelling out “Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.” 

He walked under the arch, breathing the heavy scents. He hadn’t been here in years. The rosebushes on either side were blazing yellow, for friendship, then orange, for passion. He walked across a thick carpet of grass and passed under another arch, this one covered in pink roses. Gratitude, admiration, and joy. A strange flower to find in a Malfoy garden. 

And here was something even stranger, a small figure standing before a thick wall of red roses. Her back was to him, but his footsteps must have given him away, because she spun around.

Draco halted. Granger wore a light, flowing skirt and a tiny white top that displayed a surprising amount of warm skin. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her golden letters on full display. No wonder that meddlesome elf put her in here. Ah, for the old days of ear-ironing.

They looked at each other silently for a moment until Granger spoke. “These roses are lovely.”

“My grandmother planted this bower,” he choked out.

“She must have been quite romantic.”

“She was a walking horror,” Draco said. “We think she poisoned Grandfather.”

“Ah.” Granger groped for a polite response. “I suppose she had her reasons.”

“She most certainly did,” Draco agreed.

There wasn’t much to say after that, so they just stood around some more. Granger’s eyes flickered to his covered arm.

“Why are you here, Granger?” Draco asked quietly.

“You made the papers.” She pointed to a _Daily Prophet_ spread out on a white-painted, wrought-iron table.

Draco braced himself, then looked down at the printed parchment. What he saw made him want to run screaming out of the garden:

**_DRACO MALFOY’S MYSTERY SOULMATE_ **

_Drunken Death Eater weeps in Knockturn Alley bar over broken heart_

_The Horhex, wizarding Britain’s most notorious nightclub, witnessed an unusual floor show Friday night as the infamous Draco Malfoy bared his latest Mark — a mark of True Love …_

Draco threw down the paper. “ _Avada_ me now,” he groaned. “Right through the fucking heart.” 

Granger looked amused. “Witnesses claim you ripped off your shirt, cried for your beloved, then vowed to never drink again.” Her smile widened. “I find the last the hardest to believe.”

Draco glared. “It’s all nonsense.”

“Is it?” Granger glanced down at his right arm, shirt cuff securely fastened. “Let’s see, shall we?”

He stepped back. “Don’t touch me, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” She continued to advance, and Draco felt the rustle of rose bushes at his back.

In a flash Draco grabbed her bare arms and spun her around so Granger’s back was to the bushes. Her hair was edged with gold in the sunlight, and her flushed face matched the red of the roses around her.

“Why did you come here? How can you be so sure?” he asked.

“I’m not. Denny Miles seemed a very nice man despite his tendency to stand in corners.”

Draco’s grip tightened. “You went to St. Mungo’s?”

“Of course, that’s where I saw the _Prophet_ story,” she said. “The bus garage was closed, so I—Malfoy, stop pushing, there are thorns, I’m getting pricked!”

“Are you now,” Draco murmured. Her lips looked as red and velvety as the petals in her hair, and he couldn’t resist dipping his head to taste them. 

Granger stopped struggling immediately and leaned into him. The kiss set Draco alight, just like the first time, and he stepped backward, pulling her with him. Once again her body was pliant in his hands, her mouth and legs opening to him, no resistance at all. He took another step back, he’d lay her down on the soft grass and—

“Aaaah!” Granger cried, and he froze. Draco raised his head to see her mass of curls caught in the roses, tangled in the thorns. “Ow!”

“Bloody hell,” Draco said, “do you have to have so much hair?”

“Don’t blame me, you pushed me into this rosebush …"

“Well, stand still, I’ll need to unwind this mess …”

“Ow!”

“Have you considered a haircut?”

“Have you considered manners?”

“Hold _still_ , you mad … there.” Draco tugged the last curl free. “I’m bleeding, look!” He held up his hand.

Granger rolled her eyes. “My hero.”

Draco pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began winding around his hand. He was shite at healing spells.

She was biting her lip now. “I’m beginning to have doubts about all this,” she said. “I can’t stand you.”

“You’d likely do better with the lamppost,” Draco agreed, trying to tuck in the end of the handkerchief.

“It’s too tight, try the other way,” Granger said. “No, that way— _Merlin,_ you’re helpless.” She batted his other hand away and undid the wrapping.

“Ouch!”

“Good Godric, it’s hardly a scratch—”

Draco looked down at her, his hand in hers. It was the roses, he decided later, the rich scent had made him dizzy.

“Kiss it all better, Granger?” His voice was teasing, but there was also a challenge. He buried his other hand in that lion’s mane of hers.

He expected her to yank her hands away, offended, but her eyes met his, and without looking away, she brought his hand to her lips, brushing them over the scratch.

“This is utterly mad, Granger,” he said hoarsely, cupping her jaw with his hand, her fingers sliding down to his wrist.

“Tell me,” she said. “Do you have them?”

Draco didn’t answer. Granger sighed, then tugged at his arm until he released her jaw.

“Maybe you don’t,” she said. “Or maybe you do and don’t want to admit it. Either way …” She shook her head and stepped to the side, out of his line of sight.

He found himself staring at the wall of red roses, their perfection marred by a crushed and tangled Granger-sized spot. She would tear up his life, and he would tear up hers, and they’d end up tangled in the thorns, unable to escape.

Draco counted twenty beats of his heart before he turned around. She was no longer there. Had she Apparated? No, no one but a Malfoy or an elf could Apparate out of the Manor grounds. He walked quickly out of the red rose bower, past the pink roses, the orange, the yellow. She was passing under the white roses … _She’s leaving_ …

“Granger!” he called. She didn’t stop. “Hermione!”

That stopped her. She was standing under the arch, staring at him. He strode up to her.

“Don’t kiss me because of some stupid letters,” Draco said. “I don’t care about the letters. I’d kiss you with or without them.”

“You would?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes.” Draco hardly knew what he was saying, he just knew she couldn’t leave this bower. Not like this.

“In fact,” he said haughtily, “I’m not convinced your letters are even genuine.” 

Her lips curved into a smile. “Oh, really.”

“Really.” He stepped closer. “The curl of the D is quite suspect.”

“Oh, you noticed that,” she said. “And I suppose there aren’t any letters up your sleeve either.”

“No.” Draco’s lips brushed her temple, and she raised her face to his. “We aren’t soulmates, Granger.” 

“We aren’t soulmates,” she repeated, and touched her lips to his.

**THE END**  
  



End file.
